


Blue Roses

by cortchuzska



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-08 23:30:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortchuzska/pseuds/cortchuzska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>‘All I ask is a flower, the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens o’ Winterfell.’</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A lady's armour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lyanna asks for Robert's help with a prank._

“Yield!”

“Never!”

Asking Robert to help her donning the armour had not proven the best idea; but she could not ask her oldest brothers, who would not approve of it more than father, nor to Benjen, who was too young to be trusted a secret. She could have asked Howland Reed, but he rode no better than Old Nan, and Lyanna did not trust his squire skills either.

She shoved a spaulder on the bridge of his nose, and he went back to fastening strings and buckling belts. Sometimes this was the language Robert best understood, and Lyanna was pretty articulate: growing up in the North, with no mother, no septa – the North kept to the Old Gods - and three brothers, spending more time on the training yard or riding than in the sewing room, could do you just that.

Up to now, Lyanna had successfully managed to keep her betrothed groping hands at due distance. Today she had won his qualms and convinced him to help her. It did not take much, actually, to get Robert join her childish escapade; it was harder preventing him telling her brothers what she was about to do.

Later, when they would be married, she was prepared to strive to keep Robert's hands off other women. Ned had cautiously uttered some warnings about her engagement, and went as far to suggest that Jon Arryn, the Lord of the Vale, was a mature man who could take better care of her, and would worship a young wife who could give him the children he never got. So that, when she would have been old and ugly, she could remarry with some lesser lord of her choice, lusting for his lady's properties. Lyanna felt no particular urge to be cared for, less to be worshipped, and to her, who never liked Old Nan's romance tales, their worst part was always “happily ever after”. Dreadfully boring: needlework and wailing babies. Lyanna had no desire for a dull marriage.

“Promise me you won't tell anyone!”

“Are you sure, Lyanna, is it the right thing to do?”

“Of course it is. With the Old Gods' help, I will succeed: I vowed them this very armour, if they don't help me, they won't get nothing. If they do, Howland will hang all my gear to the weirwood branches, when everyone is at the banquet, and nor father nor my brothers will ever know..”

Robert patted her armour, with no further accidents, and looked appreciatively at her.

“My Lord Stark, you're done.”

“My beloved's favour to complete my attire.” Lyanna giggled. “A ribbon – a veil – anything eligible?”

“I fear I'm woefully in want of such items.”

“At least a kiss.”

To Robert's surprise, Lyanna tiptoed and peppered a quick peck on his lips, sneaked the oilcloth – once a sash, he had used to oil the armour joints , and scurried away.

“What will people think, if they see us, a Baratheon kissing his squire?”

“I promise I won't tell anyone!” Lyanna blew him a mocking good-bye kiss.


	2. The Knight of Laughters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Harrenhal feast_

The hall was noisier than usual; everybody at the banquet was wondering about the Knight of the Laughing Tree and trying to guess who he could be.

“I'm glad you recovered your health, my lady; I didn't see you at the tourney today, and Ned told me you were not well.” Robert Baratheon greeted Lyanna Stark.

“A most severe case of boredom, the maester said.” Her little brother Benjen added gravely. “Another hour of Southron ladies' pleasantries, and the Lady Lyanna would certainly die.”

She playfully elbowed him.

The bench where the Stark brothers, Lyanna and her betrothed sat was amongst the noisiest. She and Robert were madly laughing, and they had devised a new game, guessing which damsel could be the Knight of the Laughing Tree, that allowed Robert to ogle at the prettiest young ladies longer than proper.

“To me, it's Ashara Dayne. Don't you think so, Ned?”

“You may be right. Her brother Arthur is the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, and she is following his footsteps.”

“The horse was a Dornish sand steed for sure, and Dornishwomen ride... Ned, why are you kicking me?”

The most unlikely oddity, the most laughable tale was to win, as it was only fitting for the Knight of _Laughters_. They had followed a strictly heraldic order and now the Great Houses were under scrutiny.

“My bets are on Catelyn Tully. The Knight's jousting style reminds me of her uncle the Blackfish.”

“Brandon will be jealous his fiancée tilts better than him!”

“Not Catelyn, she is too tall; I would rather say Lysa.”

“What about Cersei Lannister?”

“She has been all the day on the royal dais with her father.”

“That's not a problem: her twin could not enlist, and disobeyed the King's order, never got to King's Landing, instead cross dressed with her, and he sat on the dais while she was jousting.”

“I'm taking that she is the Knight of the Laughters.”

“Definitely, Cersei Lannister takes the cake.”

Robert and Lyanna agreed guffawing. “To be sure, that is the funniest tale ever!”

Ned was happy his sister and his best friend got along; but tonight, they were getting along a bit _too_ well; and Robert had not even drunk much. He would keep a close eye on him.

Brandon added seriously. “You could have hit close to the mark. Jaime Lannister was bid back to King's Landing, but he wanted to join the tourney so badly, he could as well come back in secret.”

The hall hushed.

_“The Knight of the Laughing Tree is no friend of mine.”_

Robert and Lyanna were still honouring the day hero with a gale of laughters.

“Haven't you heard the King, two fools of you? He wants to get hold of the Knight of the Laughing Tree.”

Lyanna's heart sinks: where is Howland? Her childish bravado doesn’t sound that harmless any more. The small Crannogman went often unnoticed, and no one minded him. He was always busying himself with some mysterious dealings of his own, and could disappear suddenly and as suddenly appear out of nowhere, and he was more at home in woods, marshes and moors than in Harrenhal huge hall.

That’s what she said to herself, to hush her fears, and quench her guilt. She should have told her father and her brothers; they knew better what does it mean to be a Stark, and would have forestalled her foolishness. A Stark does not endanger her House bannermen - especially the lesser ones, deserving protection - for a silly whim; Howland Reed, after the squires' accident, looked at her with the blind faith of a puppy, and she took unduly advantage of his trust in her.

She felt the commanding warmth of a shy smile at her nape, and couldn’t help hurriedly turning her head; Howland’s queer green eyes flickered at distance, from the far end of the Hall. At her beckoning, he was by her side within seconds, as lords, serving girls, ladies, men-at-arms, dogs, jugglers crawling everywhere were just fog, and Lyanna softly pressed her hands on his, with no word saying both “Thank you.” and “Forgive me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, yesterday something went wrong uploading this chapter. Updated today


	3. Under the weirwood tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lyanna meets Rhaegar_

“I guess this is yours, my lady Lyanna.”

She turned her head; Prince Rhaegar Targaryen produced her a tattered sash, with a courtly smile and an affected poise.

“I'm afraid, my lord, that’s no lady attire, and I don't wear sashes.”

“As knights don't wear ribbons nor veils, but for ladies' favours on their armour, when tilting. My mistake.”

Was it a joke?

“Why did you thought it was mine?”

“I've heard Lord Stark considers jousting only marginally less frivolous than dance, and frowns on his sons joining a tourney. May be is it more befitting to a young lady?”

Lyanna was speechless, her hearth throbbing.

“As of late I’ve being wandering in the godswood, and wondering what could be slung on a weirwood tree. I hope you, hailing from the North, will be so kind as to meet my interest and share your knowledge. But I'm afraid that's not the most suitable place. Tonight at the godswood, it's agreed.” He added in a casual tone, without letting her reply.

His polite manners frightened her more; it was told the Mad King himself could be a charming man.

She asked her father for Robert; he was nowhere to be found: after the melee, likely lying drunken somewhere – or with someone.

She had hoped he would go with to her; but what could he do? Smash down the heir of the Iron Throne with his warhammer? Diplomacy was not Robert's best virtue, and that could be just a jape. Alone with him at night, she knew what would follow, and she knew as well her nerves would not be in the state to say no.

She could not ask Howland, he had already risked too much; he had been mistreated by simple squires, and if it was a trap, they would be ruthless on him, while she as a Great House lady could hope for better treatment.

She decided to go alone, but fetched a wide compass before entering the godswood. The long ride did not soothe her fears, but made her wolf-blood seethe. Prince Rhaegar was alone as well, and Lyanna was going to confront with him.

“My lady Lyanna, well met.” As they met by chance.

Lyanna forgot her few courtesies. “How could you tell it was me?”

He hissed softly, with the sad half-smile he would show playing his harp.

“ _Northern wind rustles godswood leaves with sweetest tunes”_

To Lyanna, it was enough to get the world “Godswood” and “North” to understand: how could she have been that stupid?

“ _White weirwood tree laughs at fell Winter coming”_

To the Starks, a weirwood was a friend of old: the ones you can count on, always at hand when you need them, almost unsighted otherwise. A Southron would not _think_ of a weirwood, but would _notice_ it. Who if not a Northerner would purposefully go to the godswood?

“ _Grey ashes fear, the fair Winter fells three”_

Her brothers were on the dais; John Umber in his cups, Crannogmen steered poleboats rather than horses. Prince Rhaegar quickly drew his own conclusion.

“I stared in awe at you, riding uphill, by this clear moon. My verses could never do justice to the way you rode. ” His voice went even softer while Prince Rhaegar dazzled a bewitching smile.

“If my father knew.. ”His purple eyes glinted and he reined his horse toward her, his long silver hair in cool moonlight looming over trees darkness. Cold chills ran through her spine.

“Will you help me?”

Lyanna Stark wished she had spent more time trading pleasantries with Southron ladies, learning how to sing, how to dance, how to smile, how to please a dragon without burning. It was easy – it was almost fun - to put down Robert's rough attempts, but she had no idea on how to answer politely to a Crown Prince, how to refuse his offers without turning Winterfell into _grey ashes_. The Prince went on; most of his talk was far above her head. He could as well have spoken High Valyrian, for all she understood. It might actually have been High Valyrian; Rhaegar was a Targaryen. Later, she could not recall what he told her, nor what she replied.

 


	4. The Queen of Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lyanna as Queen of Love and Beauty, and her return to Winterfell_

All tourney attendance were cheering louder than ever: from smallfolk standing in the commons, to people sitting on benches, to noblemen and ladies assembling on silk-draped galleries, to the royal family and their retinue who took their seat on the high dais under a dragons emblazoned canopy. Prince Rhaegar doffed his helm, slanted his spear and gracefully received on its tip the winner's prize, while the throng burst out into gleeful acclamations.

As he drove his horse past the royal dais, rejoyicings faded into puzzled murmurs.

All eyes turned to her, mutters frozen into ghastly silence.

Prince Rhaegar lowered his lance and slid the crown of the Queen of Love and Beauty on her lap.

She couldn’t read his behaviour, no more than her own heart. Was it praise, shameless outrage, or just a jest?

A winter roses wreath. Did he know their meaning?

Was it a threat, a subtle suggestion, a bidding?

Blue roses were beautiful, but ominous as well. In wailing Northern ballads they marked, no mistake, a vanished Stark maiden. Stolen beyond the Wall. Hidden in Winterfell crypts. Lost to her family. To Lyanna, the most terrifying yet thrilling stories, for they could be as well referring to herself; though now the queer waste lands beyond the Wall sounded more familiar and welcoming than this sudden cold of hushed voices around her.

Benjen startled and stared at Lyanna like he had never seen her before; Robert looked daggers at Rhaegar, and her father averted his gaze sullenly, while Ned lingered on her a grievous reproachful glare, and even Brandon, her careless, wilful brother, looked worried. Only Howland's meek, sad, knowing eyes met hers with no ill ease.

Lyanna herself was stunned; yet she donned her crown, proud and unflinching, and presided stately over the tourney concluding banquet as was her duty as a Queen of Love and Beauty.

King Aerys squinted at her with mistrust. Princess Elia countenance was stony, and she soon retired, excused by her health, followed by her ladies, among which Ashara Dayne cast her a sorrowful glance. Cersei Lannister laughed with murderous mirth, but Lyanna's throat was raw. She smiled, she bowed, she danced, as expected of her.

Yet it was not really her smiling, dancing, and enjoying herself, but a puppet of herself; and when the mummer's farce ended, she felt numb, as ice had crept all over her, and her neck so stiff, as the crown she wore was heavier than iron; but on her weighed Rhaegar's unceasing amethyst gaze, more searing than the whole court prying, disapproving stares, and not a wispy wreath of now withering blue petals.

Lyanna's debut at the Targaryens' court had been smashing - a smashing failure, and Lord Rickardt decided to depart earlier than courtesy allowed.

The eager for life girl of a week ago, wildly excited about the South, the tournament, the court - and everything, really – would have raged, protested, pleaded, even cried, and finally grudgingly obeyed, sullenly lingering or lagging behind. Then her brother Brandon would come to her, and make her laugh, or engage with her into a mad horse race..

Now Lyanna was ready and in full marching gear far before her brothers. Now she longed for the North and for Winterfell, and she wished to forget Harrenhal and resume her previous life in her childhood home.

Now soon was not soon enough; and her parting with Robert was hurried and embarrassed, and what they said each other cold and meaningless. None of them had ever been actually that good with words before.

After Harrenhal, Winterfell looked small; blue roses, who had reminded her of home, now were blooming in the glass gardens and haunted her with memories of the tournament.

Lyanna was no longer the cheerful carefree child of old. Even Benjen resented her changed mood, and they were not so close any more. At first she had feared that her betrothal with Robert could pull them apart, but instead her little brother was more excited than her at the idea of Robert Baratheon – melée champion, boastful warrior and all – joining the Starks in marriage. When Lord Stark proposed her Robert, her assent was less than enthusiastic, “I should marry someone, soon or late, I suppose.”, even if her father could hardly choose better than the Lord of the Stormlands: a young man, already a Lord, and a close friend to her brother Ned, not a complete stranger. Now even Robert seemed to belong to her past life, no more than a childish infatuation; and home felt no longer like home, and she was a stranger to herself. Prince Rhaegar had likely forgotten her; and not even Lyanna could remember who she really was.


End file.
